by Robert Day
Another intersection, and this time he was even more cautious, eyes darting each way, trying to slice through the gloom in search of more creatures. His hearing was pricked for any perceivable sound or change in nearby pressure, but he found nothing.
Which was why his second wound came without warning, and this time when he turned towards the direction of the attack, there was no visible assailant. His keen sight caught a fleeting shadow in the darkness, but it disappeared instantly. He clutched at his left shoulder and found a line of four trails of blood, not long and deep, though they burned with an inner fire, as if the wounds were instantly infected.
Another sharp pain in his thigh had him turning with a cry, both of frustration and pain as another shadow fleetingly passed into darkness beyond his vision. His pants were sliced neatly and were already darkening with blood as he looked down.
A third attack had him clutching at his stomach as a creature passed him, but had attacked and was gone before he could even raise his weapon. He caught a glimpse of a skeletal being of pearly hue, with clawed hands and bulbous, ridged forehead. It was in the seclusion and protection of the darkness before he could move after it, like a ghost into fog.
Realizing these 'things' were too fast for him under the conditions, and wishing he had Llewellyn's rapier also, he opted for a method of fighting the Elf had hinted at several times, and he had read about in the manuals Llewellyn had left him. It was a WindDancer method requiring total concentration and perception, however it necessitated the closing of ones eyes in order to bring the senses into focus. He did this, using his senses and subconscious memory from the first three attacks, so that the fourth attack, though hitting a painful slash across his cheek, still allowed him to almost evade it, and he could almost picture the fleeting figure in his mind.
Left! Blocking out the pain and the feeling of blood running down his face, leg and side, he spun and lashed out, though in his mind he could see his sword arcing out and grazing one of the bone-like creatures. As he felt his sword bite, there came an explosion and he was assailed by small pieces of shrapnel. 'Shards of bone', he realized, feeling several bite deep and sting, like giant hornets, but the thrill and satisfaction of striking it had him feeling more than a little euphoric.
Which was why another was able to sneak an attack that had him flailing for a parry at the last moment, trying to regain his focus. He felt and 'saw' his sword deflect a clawed slash, then all trace of the figure was gone. It returned a moment later, but this time he was more than ready.
Whether it was the slightest scraping against the stone or his sense of shifting pressure around him, or the creature's smell or nauseating presence, Valdieron was able to focus clearly on it, better than he could have with his eyes open. As it was, he stepped into the line of its charge, 'seeing' that it had difficulty turning sharply from the collision course, and a sweeping chop had it falling into a pile of bones at his feet. There was no explosion this time, nor was there any sign of bones or small shards, only dark silence once again as he looked down the corridor.
“Father!”
The call came faintly, sounding of echoes resonating through countless corridors and intersections. He thought for a fleeting moment it was his subconscious playing a game on him, or a part of the test, but when it came again, he could distinguish the voice was female, and not so far away as he first suspected, though still he could not place a location or distance.
“Father! Where are you, father?”
This sounded almost on him. He spun reflexively, sensing some creature was using the words as a lure, and he was not surprised to find another dark figure emerge from the darkness. This one was like the previous one, though fiery red in hue and bulkier, with bat- like wings springing from shoulders. It had narrow eyes, not unlike a cat's, and in its hands it held a huge sword of fiery black.
“Father!”
The call came again, and he saw it did not come from the creature, but it may as well have, so close was it. Then it struck him, how many times he would dream as a child and be speaking in a dream, only to have his father or Marcus calling him, the words intermingling so they appeared to be both from the dream.
“This is not happening to me!” It came as a scream as the huge creature raised its fiery sword, eyes blazing and unreadable except for the pure hatred that burned there. Its mouth was open in a soundless cry, and muscles bunched beneath smooth red skin. It towered over him, and the sword descended inexorably.
“Father!”
Was it he or the other voice calling this time? He could not tell, but his gaze never left the descending blade, falling slowly like a toppling tree. He did not shy away, however, determined that if he believed enough that it was not real, he would be safe.
The dark sword passed through him like a breeze through tattered thatch, though where it struck, he felt a freezing shock, like the touch of icy water. He gasped in surprise, both at the feel and the sight of the sword passing through him, and even before it exited, his vision, or was it the surroundings, began to blur, and a new scene formed around him.
Strange trees surrounded him like silent guards, not tall but splendid in their spidery appearance and gleaming leaves, as if covered with a slight dew. They were not packed together tightly nor spread out, just enough so movement through them would not be hindered. The trees extended as far as he could see in every direction, though it was still dark, like twilight.
The silence was enough to indicate this was no ordinary forest, for even some sound of wildlife would be seen or heard if it were. No bird flitted from branch to branch, and no insect cried into the night. He could not even see any tracks in the lush green grass around him.
Nor could he hear the voice he had heard before.
With one way as good as another, he began to walk. The soft ground cushioned his footfalls beneath him, though he was not trying to be silent. He stopped occasionally, listening for any sounds other than his breathing and to peer around for signs of movement, but each time there was nothing. He noticed the deep wound in his side was pulled together like it had been looked after and left to heal for several days, though the dried blood still caked his side and stained his trousers. The other minor cuts to his shoulder, face and thigh had disappeared, leaving no trace of them ever having existed, and if not for the tear in his trousers, he may have thought they had never been there.
How far he walked, he could not tell, but it was more than a bit and less than a lot, but as suddenly as he had arrived at this strange place, a new scene unfolded before him. The trees thinned ahead, and a light of unknown source illuminated a great glade, in the center of which was a large fountain. Not surprisingly, the fountain was in the shape of a crouching dragon, wings half spread so they formed a slight shelter, and its high head was spewing forth a thin stream of silvery water that landed in a large chalice it held in one claw. It was overflowing, the circular spray falling into the wide basin around it in a dazzling display, the constant trickling sounding almost musical in its beauty and resonance.
A figure stood beneath the shadow of one wing, dark and indistinguishable other than it was of human form. Valdieron readied his sword as he strode forward, and the figure heard him and turned, a weapon appearing from the dark, silvery and slender. This was the first weapon he had seen here that was not black, but wary of deception, he remained alert as he stepped forward.
“Who are you?”
The voice, female and sounding wary even in its sternness, gave Valdieron pause and he lowered his weapon slightly. If this was some test, he was not about to fight a woman, though he would defend himself if necessary.
“I am Valdieron. I am here to drink of the fountain, and I have no quarrel with you if you will let me pass.” He tried to sound equally stern, but found the unfamiliar words sounded almost like a plea.
The woman laughed after a moment's pause, though it was short and hinted at some personal humor. “I do not know how you came here, Valdieron, but drink if you will. I
will not stop you, but do not doubt death will be your companion if you do.”
Valdieron halted again as he began to step forward. “Who are you? What do you mean by that?” He had not been told of any other dangers associated with the fountain, but by her words he pondered such, for he did not detect any deception on her part. “Why are you waiting for your father?”
The woman gave a gasp of surprise, but regained her composure quickly. “What do you know of my father?” Her sword came up slightly, and there was a hard edge to her voice. “Where is he?”
Valdieron drew back slightly, sensing fear and determination in the woman's voice. “I heard you calling to him before.”
“He will come!” insisted the woman softly, perhaps to herself for reassurance, but Valdieron heard nonetheless. “I wait for him here on the night of Qantari’s rebirth. He will come!”
Was this part of the test or something else? There was something in it that moved him to caution, but he sensed this woman had nothing to do with his test.
“I am sure he will come, too.” Valdieron's words were soft and reassuring, recalling his own heartache after his father had died, and sensed the same feelings running through this woman also. She was scared, he knew, though he could not see her to judge her actions.
“I must drink from the fountain,” he breathed again, this time even softer as a wave of tiredness washed over him and his eyes blurred briefly. He felt as if every muscle was asleep, and he wondered how he could stand. Still, the fountain loomed only five paces away, and the woman's warnings were forgotten.
The first step was the easiest, though it still took an agonizingly long time to do as he willed his muscles to respond. Like walking through waist deep mud, each step became more difficult and strenuous. He could feel sweat dripping from his body, some trickling onto his side wound, stinging like the touch of liquid fire but he grimaced against the pain, knowing that to let it consume him would be the end of the test, with success almost within reach.
He was at the fountain then, his vision so blurred he could not marvel at the silver luminescence of the sparkling water, but the gentle caress of the icy water on his burning skin was like a blessing, and he took a long, gasping breath. He could vaguely see the chalice the dragon held before him, almost out of reach, when it would have been so easy to stoop down and drink from the pool. He did not, for some reason, balancing precariously on unresponsive legs and stretching for it. It came free grudgingly in his numbed hands as if the Dragon wished to keep it but could not deny him, and he soon had it to his lips. There was a muffled cry off to the side, but it could not penetrate his foggy mind as he trickled some of the icy liquid into his mouth. It carried with it the same refreshing touch, only that no sooner had he swallowed did he feel the rush of his tiredness come back with full force and he was falling, ever so slowly, as if a leaf caught by an up-draught as it fell. He did not even feel the impact against the ground before his mind was flashing with images faster than he could clearly perceive. They began to slow, however, and the images began to take on meaning for him.
Chapter 13
He is the watcher. Looking around, he has no form, no body. A ghost.
Beneath him extend the heavens, thousands upon thousands of stars, so close he could almost reach out and touch some if he had arms, and too many for him to count in several lifetimes. There is darkness all around, not the pitch that invades underground realms or other lightless areas, but the dark ambience of the heavens where faint light comes from every thing and everywhere, so even without a sun there is light.
Before him loom two planets, twins in all aspects of size, shape and shifting hues. There is about both a shimmering aura that was all but invisible, imperceptible to any but he, for he was the watcher. Like a shallow pool of spring water rippling in the breeze, this field surrounded each planet like a barrier.
Essence.
He had heard this somewhere, though he could not recall where or when, or even from whom. Essence, the lifeblood of the universe, so strong it was visible to him.
Kil'Tar and Kara'Tar: the twin planets.
He is moving then, under no impulse of his own, and he laments that he is a watcher only, though the thrill of floating in the heavens is both exhilarating and intoxicating.
Kara'Tar looms before him, growing faster by the moment until he is 'standing' atop a rocky pinnacle in warm daylight, and he knew this area would be snow covered in colder times. As it was, his vantage offered him an excellent view of a rocky basin below, several miles across and smooth. Perhaps it was once a lake before the warm weather came?
Time shifted. Not the jerk between one time frame to another, but a speeding up of the days and nights, so that darkness and light were intermingled momentarily before once again light permeated his awareness and he was again on the rocky pinnacle. All appeared as it had been before the shift, though his keen vision and awareness showed the land was more lush than before. Grass and other plants dotted the basin, and around it the land was littered with trees and bushes. Amongst them, small creatures could be seen, from small rodent like animals to flying creatures of varying size and color. Some of these he recognized, if not altogether the same of those he had seen before, while others were as alien as this land he looked over.
A flicker of movement overhead caught his attention. He looked up as a coruscating line of silver appeared, its size indeterminable for he could not judge its distance. As he watched, however, it appeared to shift, like a cat trying to escape a sack, and it seemed to widen as an arc of light sprang forth, bathing the ground below. There was a flicker of movement as a figure drifted from it.
A moment of recognition struck the watcher, but disappeared quickly as he viewed the levitating figure. He was human in appearance, though tall and muscular. He wore a gleaming suit of armor, which consisted of silvery chain hauberk, golden cuirass, along with golden tassets, cuisses and greaves for arms and legs. His head was covered by a gilded silver helm, flaxen tassels blowing around him in the gentle breeze making them appear alive, like slender golden snakes. Over his suit of armor he wore a pale blue tabard, lined with silver and showing the symbol of a star upon the left breast.
In his hand he clutched a sword, a huge weapon of silver and gold, the blade double- edged. He clutched it effortlessly in one hand as his eyes, hard and unblinking, scanned the surroundings as if their green depths could discern every aspect of this land.
Another figure appeared as the Portal jerked, this one a female, similarly dressed as the male who preceded her, except her armor was close- fitting and her helm had silver tassels. Although the watcher could not see, he knew the woman was beautiful, just as the man had been handsome, despite her warrior like bearing.
More followed after, the procession gaining speed as if swiftness was imperative. There were children amongst the adults, though all were armed and armored, though the weapons and armor varied, both in design and color, as did the tabards, for there were several different colors, blue and red predominant, but there was black, green, yellow and white also.
The Portal began to shimmer, then, like a lantern running low. Still there were people coming through, so that when it blinked out, the watcher could not tell if there were more to have come through or if it were timed so that all were through before it closed. Those who were through did not seem worried it was closed, however, though some did cast it an almost rueful look.
Suddenly the watcher was below, amidst the group as if he were one of them, though nobody seemed to notice him. He was standing to the side of the first man who had come through, and he appeared lost in thought, his eyes half closed. Many descended to form around him, though some few moved away from the group as if acting as guards. Most of these wore the blue or red.
One other man pushed through the press, and the watcher regarded him cautiously, for his appearance spoke of harshness. He wore a black tabard with no symbol, and his equally dark armor was jagged with many small protrusions, like tiny daggers. Hi
s silver- lined helm was removed, revealing the face of a young man, though hard and bold. Not unhandsome, but his eyes were stern, giving him a cold appearance that was far from appealing. Maybe if he smiled it would change, though his face seemed carved of granite. He waited as the man who was concentrating reopened his eyes, though there was a look of scornful pleasure on this young man's face.
“Is there anything on this world?”
The blue tabard clad man removed his own helm with a sigh and slipped it over his shoulder onto the hilt of his sword he had sheathed onto his back. His face seemed as equally emotionless as the younger man who spoke to him, though his green eyes were deeper and less harsh, and he gave a weak smile as he wiped his dark hair away from his face. “There is nothing on this planet we cannot accommodate.” His voice was deep and commanding, holding a power to it, that the watcher felt suddenly dwarfed by this man.
“There can be no accommodation if there is danger to us,” returned the youth, his voice harsh and challenging. “If there is danger, we must crush it. We have suffered enough already.”
The older man regarded the youth with obvious concern, though there was nothing imperious about his gaze. “There is no danger to us, Vighor. We can settle here without concern.” This last bit was said with emphasis, though there was about it a question that seemed to be directed at this man, Vighor, who scowled and turned away.
“Let it begin, then. We must rebuild our people lest we be swept away.” Vighor's words carried over the whole group, numbering less than four score in number, all silent and expectant.
“Let us begin!” shouted the man in the blue tabard, forcing the group into movement. “We will build on this plain.”
